Towels At Dawn
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Shamefully salacious soap and slapping shower sheet shenanigans, written for the “Angela, keep fighting!” UnGen Challenge at SPNville dot net. Rated T for the whole damn thing. I make no apologies. It was nice to write. Very.


**Slappity Slap-Slap!**

_Shamefully salacious soap and slapping shower sheet shenanigans, written for the "Angela, we love you! Get better soon!" UnGen Challenge at SPNville dot net. Rated T for the whole damn thing!_

_I was struggling for a good subject, and then my l'il sis came up with towels. And here we are…_

* * *

Dean leaned forward and killed the engine, falling back into the seat gratefully. He leaned back over the seat and grabbed his duffle, catching sight of Sam's miserable face as he sat back round again.

"Come on, man," he said encouragingly, nudging his arm. "Hot showers, hot coffee, hot porn channels - any of this blowing up your skirt?"

But Sam's face did more than tell him he was not amused. It told him he was cold, weary, stinking… and wanting to be left alone to mope.

Dean sighed, squeaking his door open and climbing out wearily, stretching before he turned and closed the door again. He sloped to the door, rummaging through his duffle to find the room key, pausing to get the key the right way up in his hand. He looked back at the car.

"You coming?" he called over.

With an Herculean effort Sam worked up enough energy to put his hand out and open the passenger door. He pushed at it and it slowly squeaked open. He put his foot to the lower edge, persuading it to stand open as he thought about how nice it would be to have the impetus to move the rest of him in the next few hours.

Dean slid the key in the door and pushed it open, turning to watch his little brother slide a hand out of the car and grip the roof. Obviously deciding to go with the Nike adverts, he forced himself to haul his weary frame out of the car.

He straightened and reached for his duffle. He grabbed it and shut the door, feeling a huff of Vesuvius proportions overtake his respiratory system. He let it erupt into the cold morning air and looked up to find his big brother watching him from the open door to the motel room.

He made an effort to look more awake and shuffled over, waiting for Dean to go in first. But he stepped back, putting a hand to Sam's shoulder and pushing him in the room slowly. He waited until Sam had wandered in and dropped his duffle to the far bed, then followed him in and shut the door soundly.

He pulled off his jacket but let out an inadvertent hiss of pain. Sam eyed him.

"Dude," he said wearily, eyeing the approaching pink sunrise through the open curtains, "get your shirt off."

"Really Sammy, I know I'm irresistible, but you're my own brother," he quipped as he dropped the jacket to a chair under said curtains. He pulled them closed quickly, not really wanting to be reminded it was just approaching dawn.

Sam shrugged. "Alright man, you pretend you're not hurt and I'll take a shower."

"Fine. You get a shower and I'll pretend you're not zombified over killing some werewolf," he replied smoothly, making it to the bed and letting himself fall backwards. The bed cushioned his fall, pleasantly surprised by the shape and feel of its new customer.

"You're getting mud on the blankets," Sam pointed out as he stripped off his shirt. His grimy t-shirt underneath positively hummed with the vile smell of sewer water.

"What are you, the maid?" Dean shot back, the heels of his hands in his eyes. "Get a shower, man, you honk out loud."

"If you're hurt you should go first," Sam said stubbornly. Dean let his hands fall and pinned him with a look that could have been broken up into cubes and served in expensive alcohol.

"Go," he commanded.

Sam tutted and pulled off his boots, dropping them to the floor before turning and locking himself in the bathroom.

Once alone and listening to pummelling water, Dean sat up slowly, unlacing and shucking his boots and socks with the enthusiasm of an elderly ant who has been at the two-for-one sugar sale all afternoon and just found out there are no taxis home. He pulled off his smelly leather jacket and then his reeking denim shirt, dumping them unceremoniously over the side of the bed and lying back.

He put his hand up under the right side of his t-shirt. He winced and pulled his hand out, raising it to his face to find a vague smear of blood on it.

He muttered something that included the phrase _pain in the ass werewolves_ before he let his hand and eyelids drop.

Sam opened the door, carrying his clothes out and hanging on to the top of the towel currently wrapped round his waist, making sure he didn't let it drop. This was actually beyond his control, as the towel was doing its utmost to cling to as many smooth, muscled parts of the wet human as it physically could.

In his efforts to hold onto the towel he instead dropped a boot. Having already been a party to the impromptu meeting between Sam's eager towels in the bathroom regarding the need for a brotherly sequel to all things Muscled and Dripping, the boot took its opportunity to help. It clattered as noisily as it possibly could to the wooden boards.

Dean stirred and opened an eye, still flat on his back. Sam paused as he looked at him.

"So it _did_ gouge a piece out of you?" he said sternly, eyeing the three-inch blood stain on his brother's t-shirt.

"No. It _scratched_ me," Dean corrected. "You done in there?"

"Done," he nodded, standing in the doorway and just letting the water roll down him slowly. The tiny beads of liquid quivered and squeeeed as they slid down him, recognising that this was in fact the Nirvana for which they had waited so long. Sam did not notice as he added, "There's still some hot water left."

Dean didn't answer and Sam dumped his filthy clothes in a pile at the right side of his bed before gripping his towel more tightly and crossing the room. He sat on the edge of Dean's bed, then leaned across him to the duffle.

"This is _my_ bed," Dean groused, "get your own."

"Shut up," Sam snorted, pulling back his brother's duffle and opening it. He rifled through for the small wooden box, pulling it out. He let the duffle drop to the floor and sat the box on his knee, still holding his towel with his free right hand. He opened the first aid box and began looking through it. "How bad is it?"

"Shallow," Dean allowed, his eyes still closed.

Sam found an alcohol swab and let go of his towel to rip the sterile paper packaging open. He shut the box and put it on the bed, lifting Dean's t-shirt.

"Hey," Dean protested as he opened his eyes, "that might work on the chicks, but I do _not_ appreciate some semi-nekkid dude trying to swab me down." He sat up, taking the sterile item from his brother roughly.

"Then do it yourself," Sam chided, grabbing his towel. He got up and went to his bed and duffle, sorting through it to find clean underwear.

_Clean myself up when you're bleeding on the inside from some werewolf hunt gone wrong?_ Dean frowned. _Why can't you just get scratched on the outside like everyone else, Sammy? Why do you have to be the one who hurts for the ones we can't save?_

Dean lifted his shirt and wiped the swab over the double cut in his skin. He hissed as it burned, looking at the swab now tinged pink.

"I'll be in the shower." _While I work out how to stop your face looking like a wet weekend in Wisconsin._

Hearing this, the two towels on the rack by the bathroom door simply itched to leap up and high-five each other. They had to be content to watch the older brother pull off his grimy t-shirt. They stared and tried not to perform the towel equivalent of drooling as he dropped the piece of offensively smelly cotton and headed for the bathroom.

He paused to pick one of the bath sheets, both of them positively dancing in the hope of selection. He took the nearest one and went into the bathroom, closing the door.

It fell silent and Sam paused his underwear search to listen.

_Why do you have to pretend nothing hurts?_ he thought angrily. _Why can't you admit that you never wanted to shoot that poor girl tonight any more than I did?_

The water started and he relaxed, upending his duffle, sure he had at least three pairs of clean shorts somewhere.

Soon the shower stopped and Sam half-turned to the door.

"You alright in there?" he asked, almost nervous. He waited, but there was no reply. "Seriously, you can't even wash yourself?"

There was no response to his half-hearted jibe and Sam bit his lip. He walked over and knocked.

"Minute," Dean said suddenly, and Sam breathed out. "Ah… You got another towel?"

"Thought you had one already," Sam tutted, turning to the rack by the door. The single remaining towel gibbered at the thought of the job that lay ahead.

"Yeah, but…"

Sam paused by the door, then stood behind it and held his hand out.

The door opened and a thick nimbus of steam rushed out. He waved at it as a hand grasped the towel and disappeared back inside. He waited, the door still ajar, but nothing was forthcoming. Sam sighed, fought with himself for a long moment, and then put his hand to the door.

"You need help?" he asked carefully, pulling the door more open and poking his head round. He was relieved to see Dean had already wrapped the first towel, willing and clinging, round his waist. He had a hand on the sink, gripping it tightly as he held a clean patch of gauze to the scrapes at his right side.

Sam sighed, Dean ignored him, but the water running down the older brother frolicked at the touch and became hysterical at the feel of their trip down over his skin. It clung tightly to the warm body, sliding as much of itself over the delightfully hard subject as possible. It was having such a heady time of giddy excitement that it failed to realise the water _underneath_ the towel was fairly squealing with the necessity of finding its own religion pretty damn quick, just so it could blurt the appropriate name of the new deity at full watery volume.

"Get dressed," Dean hissed at his big little brother. "Get some sleep." _Come on Sam, come right back…_

"Screw you," Sam said deliberately, walking out of the bathroom and fetching the first aid box. He brought it back in and sat it by the sink. He opened it, holding his towel fast in his left hand.

"I can do it," Dean managed, trying to sound defensive.

_My ass_, Sam snorted to himself.

He found the sticking plaster, finding the recently proffered towel and handing it to his brother. Dean pulled the gauze from the wound, dumping it in the sink to reveal the blood on it. He wiped at his side to dry it, the water screeching in horror as it was sucked away from the pinnacle of slippery perfection, the skin that was just begging to be moistened and tobogganed down.

He dumped the towel in the sink too and Sam swept a fresh swab over the cuts, peeling open a fresh square of sticking plaster. He leaned over and slapped it to his brother's side.

"Goddamn it, Sammy!" he hissed. His hand slipped on the sink and the tap gushed on, over the towel. The basin started to fill with cold water.

"Don't be such a girl," Sam grinned, reaching over and turning off the tap. "That _is_ what you always tell me, isn't it?"

"Ass."

"Wuss."

"Hairy freak," Dean shot back. But he smiled.

"Hairless wonder," Sam chuckled, turning to go.

Dean's eyes fell on the hand towel in the sink, and he judged it had been sat in enough water while Sam hadn't noticed. He slid his eyes over to his brother, currently packing everything back into the first aid box, then back to the towel.

He cleared his throat quietly, leaning over and shifting the towel from blocking the plug hole. The water drained away, leaving the cottony mass in the sink. Sam watched dumbly as Dean pulled the now dripping towel from the sink.

"Now, Sam," he said slowly, deliberately, taking hold of both ends of the towel firmly. "You really oughtta lighten up." _Cos you don't deserve to be a grumpy bastard about something that wasn't your fault._

"Wait a minute…" Sam said quickly, pennies dropping like rain. "No!"

Dean grinned, spinning the middle section of towel around. Apart from sending water over the room, it also rather neatly formed a long, sopping wet weapon.

Sam looked at him and caught the hysterical glint in his eye due to being over-tired and the funk of alcohol-based chemicals. He bolted from the room. He grabbed at his towel as Dean yanked the hand towel back and snapped it hard against his brother's retreating shoulder blades.

"Son of a bitch!" Sam cried angrily, snatching up the spare hand towel from his bed and spinning it quickly.

Dean emerged from the bathroom, advancing on Sam with a wicked grin and a hand to his towel to keep it from slipping from his waist.

"I've got a towel too - and I'm not afraid to use it!" Sam threatened hurriedly.

Dean grinned evilly. "But mine's wet!"

He lashed out with the towel, catching Sam's chest with the very hem of the sopping wet cotton.

"Bastard!" Sam bit out, spinning his towel in one hand and snapping it out at Dean. He almost managed to avoid it. The towel caught him across the shoulder and he growled something that turned the air blue.

Sam found himself laughing for no reason. But then Dean snapped the dripping towel round and crowed in victory as it connected with Sam's arm.

"Right!" Sam ran for the bathroom. He slammed the door shut just in time as Dean landed heavily against it.

"Come on, Samantha, open the door!" he teased. "What, afraid of a little Death By Whup-Ass, towel style?"

"You say that now," Sam shot back, and Dean paused as he heard water running from inside. Suddenly the door was wrenched open. Sam's towel, now dripping wet, slapped him full in the breastbone. He staggered back as Sam pushed past him and ran out into the main room.

"You _better_ run!" Dean taunted, turning and chasing after him.

And Winchester Wet War Two, coming sixteen years after the messiest and most protracted towel fight ever to be witnessed by cotton or human, went into full swing.

**THE END**

* * *

_Silly and just an excuse to get towels into the mix. Chin up Angela! We're all rooting for you!_


End file.
